facets
by itsallanoxymoron
Summary: Under that pretty little face are scars that never healed. ::a collection for our favorite, terrible daughter of the love goddess:: Current: you chasing me
1. this haunted memory

**f a c e t s [or, one of the small, polished plane surfaces of a cut gem]**

**S**u**m**m**a**r**y**: Everywhere I look I see you, you know. /or, you died and now I'm here

_P_a_i_r_i_n_g_: michaeldrew

a/n: Because I _swear_ I came up with the idea of using Drew to star in her own collection of fics—or perhaps even a multi-chaptered story—first. I came up with that as _I read the first book_. Exactly ! PO'd,, man.

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**one**_. _this haunted memory

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Don't you ever wonder what would happen if you openly declared your love for me?

I try not to think about things like that. [I don't have the courage to, love.]

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Have I ever told you that you're too perfect for me?

You could say it a little more. He winks. She sighs.

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People wonder why she changed, after the war.

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She uses boys like toys—_help me forget, baby. _Make _me forget._

[She doesn't like the sweet—they remind her of him. She does not care for the desperate—they mirror her inner self. She will not settle for the angry or spiteful or hypnotic—they will overpower her.]

(It is then that she wonders what she really wants, and knows she cannot have it.)

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She watches him die, and realizes that perhaps life is too short to live inside the lines.


	2. love isn't required

**f a c e t s [or, one of the small, polished plane surfaces of a cut gem]**

**S**u**m**m**a**r**y**: There are three words which make people [I love you] and three that are meant to break people [let's break up]. /or, breaking hearts so situations won't reverse

_P_a_i_r_i_n_g_: willdrew

a/n: Love the number of reviews I got ! If we make twenty, I'll have ten per chapter;) * hint, hint *

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**two**_. _love isn't required

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He plays with her hair when she says, "Let's break up." He's surprised at how calm her voice is, how even—as if she's talking about mundane, easy things. He stops, stares at his hands. She looks up, innocent and questioning. _(Terrible_, his mind says. _You're terrible.) _"Well?"

He sighs and cradles his face in his hands. "Why." Not a question.

"Because." Not an answer.

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"Please," he whispers. "Stay with me."

She scowls at him. "Give me a reason."

"Because I love you."

Her response is a glare. "That's one-sided."

"Isn't everything?"

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_(Please. Please love me.)_


	3. breathing the fire

**[or, one of the small, polished plane surfaces of a cut gem]**

**S**u**m**m**a**r**y**: Oh, isn't someone jealous?

_P_a_i_r_i_n_g_: percydrew, with a side of percyannabeth and drew&many

a/n: If you're still with me, I'm hoping to update more. Thank you, readers and reviewers. I love you all!

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**three**_. _breathing the fire pt. one

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Perseus Jackson is a hero. No one dares deny it; he has saved Olympus not once, not twice, but several times. Newcomers and rising heroes hear tale of Perseus Jackson, and they listen in eager awe. Such accomplishments he's made.

Perseus Jackson is a hero. This is fact.

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This is also what draws her to him.

Drew Marties is, at her core, a lonely girl who grew up quite too fast. Her exterior shell consists of boys who wear their hearts on their sleeves, of men with brains and overpowering smiles, containing a mix of girls with pretty lips and women who smell of rich perfume.

Drew Marties is, in a word: a whore.

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They're both the same in that respect—the public, no, the _world_, has made up their mind about who they are: the hero and the whore. The good girl gone bad and the shining gentlemen of shameful lineage.

Once judgment is passed, only actions can change hearts.

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Night is the time when demons come out to play.**  
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	4. isn't someone jealous

**[or, one of the small, polished plane surfaces of a cut gem]**

**S**u**m**m**a**r**y**: Oh, isn't someone jealous?

_P_a_i_r_i_n_g_: percydrew, with a side of percyannabeth and drew&many

a/n: As I said, I was hoping to update more. So here is your update. *presents graciously*

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**four**_. _breathing the fire pt. two

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He is, perhaps, her greatest uncovered trophy. She, likewise, is his secret passion.

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Perhaps it is not love—but who needs that?

Love is the thing that sets sails, starts wars. Love is patient, kind, unresentful. Love is the power that uproots even the gods. Love transcends time, space, age, lifetimes. No, they do not love.

But perhaps passion is better than that foolish thing.

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When she sees the greatest couple since Romeo and Juliet, Caesar and Cleopatra, Helen and Paris—she knows this is true, for her mother blurts the words often enough, and to many ears—flaunt their so-called love, her heart turns cold. Her heart turns cold and her eyes blaze and crescents on her pam bleed red, red, _ruby red_, but no one notices _gods don't notice_—

Maybe it is not love, but it just might be the closest thing Drew Marties has ever felt to it.

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Percy Jackson thinks she might have corrupted him.

He's never been innocent, of course—he's killed kids and slayed monsters and banished gods. But the things he's done with her he doesn't do with his girlfriend. (Never has he gone all the way; he has some sense still.)

If Drew Marties is the devil, then Perseus Jackson would gladly trade immortality for damndation.


	5. you chasing me

**[or, one of the small, polished plane surfaces of a cut gem]**

**S**u**m**m**a**r**y**: They are a twisted sort of perfect.

_P_a_i_r_i_n_g_: malcolmdrew

a/n: I really am terribly sorry that I have not updated in a while.

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**five**_. _[chasing] you, chasing me

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They are a twisted sort of perfect.

He believes in love at first sight and happy endings and together forever. She prefers too much vodka and won't remember the next day. He thinks he can change her player ways. She thinks that she can become his first and most memorable heartbreak.

They are a twisted sort of perfect.

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Their love is written in the sand.

The unkind tide washes it away.

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"I wish I had never met you," boy says, ten years after the terrible betrayal and tragic goodbye.

Girl laughs—harsh and mean and bitter. "You're not the only one."

"What's that supposed to mean?" boy demands, wounded.

Girl rolls her eyes, pats his arm condescendingly. "Figure it out, Ivy League," girl says simply to patronize him. Boy glares and girl laughs, again, at his expense.

Ten years down the road, and they are still a twisted sort of perfect.


End file.
